


Enjolras And His Merry Men

by Triss_Hawkeye



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Robin Hood (Traditional)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Robin Hood, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triss_Hawkeye/pseuds/Triss_Hawkeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Robin Hood/medieval England AU, following a certain band of outlaws calling themselves by French names, protesting King John’s obsession with retaking Normandy at the expense of his own people. Anachronisms abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enjolras And His Merry Men

The candle was burning low. Sheriff William Brewer, responsible for the upholding of the law in the county of Nottingham, rubbed the fingers of one hand into his eyes, in the vain hope it would relieve the strain of writing well into darkness. Leaning back, he shuffled his notes across his desk and scanned them again.

Everything he knew, everything that he could possibly dig up on that band of outlaws was here. And, somehow, he would compile it into a report for King John. Sheriff Brewer replaced the candle and began to review what he’d written. His page on the ringleader was the messiest. Full of speculated identities, some scribbled out, some accompanied by arrows pointing to odd pieces of evidence in their favour. The top of the page, though, was clear as day.

“Notorious outlaw leader, resident in Sherwood forest,” it read. “Slight in appearance, with yellow hair and blue eyes, armed with longbow, very dangerous. Known to dress in red. Wanted on many counts of robbery of travellers passing through Sherwood forest, and incitement of peasants to rebellion. Merry men, number unknown, call themselves Les Amis. Leader’s identity unknown, real name possibly Robert or Robin. Goes by the name ‘Enjolras’.”

——

The carriage bounced and clattered along the forest road, axles squeaking in protest as the driver urged the horses onwards.

“Heavens above, man,” came a cry from the interior, and a middle-aged baron leaned out of the window to glare at the driver. “What a pace you drive these horses at! You will shake us out of our skins!”

“Haven’t you heard?” the driver replied, his voice agitated. “There’s outlaws in these woods. You’ll thank me when we get out of here with purses intact.”

The nobleman retreated into the carriage with an angry huff, scanning the trees. All green. No red longbowmen there. Nothing to be worried about. He sat back again, uneasily, and let out a breath to calm himself. He almost screamed when his wife latched onto his arm.

“Oh! Outlaws? Isn’t that exciting! Will we be all right? Oh! Do you think we will see Enjolras himself? I have heard he is the second most handsome man in all of England. And he and all his men go by French names. It’s rather romantic, really…”

“So does that make me the-”

He was cut off as the driver gave a yell. There was a startled whinney from the horses and the carriage shuddered violently as it was brought to a stop. The occupants clutched each other and looked around them. The carriage was surrounded on all sides by men in red, with long brown cloaks at their feet and each armed with a longbow and a sword at their side. They barely had time to draw a breath when a voice could be heard from the front, young but commanding.

“You are surrounded. Stay where you are. It would be unwise to resist.”

Peering out of the carriage, they saw a man standing in the middle of the road, young but fierce, almost radiant. He was clad in scarlet like his men, with golden hair flowing out from beneath a red peaked hat, fashioned in the style that hunters wore. He held a longbow in front of him with arrow nocked, pointed down, not drawn, but his stance carried an energy that suggested that he could put an arrow through the eye of anyone who made a wrong move before they could even draw their sword. He was but one man in the middle of a road, but the intensity of his gaze seemed in itself impassable, and he spoke as if all authority belonged to him.

“The people of England suffer beneath the burden of heavy taxes, paid to a corrupt and covetous king who cares not for the well-being of his own people, but only for his conquests in France. The nobles of this land, safe amidst their riches, show no mercy to those who suffer under them, people who go hungry so that battles can be fought across the sea, whose wins or losses will grant them nothing in return.

“It is time for the tables to be turned. Neither Normandy nor Aquitaine will give back to the people of England, but Les Amis of Sherwood Forest will. And you nobles in turn will learn what it is like to be stolen from by the French! Courfeyrac, Bahorel.” He gave a brusque nod to two of the outlaws, who shouldered their bows and climbed into the carriage.

“Please excuse us, my lady,” said the man named Courfeyrac, with a grin that inhabited his eyes just as much as his wide mouth. His scarlet garments were clearly his own, a nobleman’s doublet and hose, well-tailored and very flattering. He kissed the lady’s hand chivalrously before opening a travel chest and rummaging through its contents.

Bahorel gave the wolfish grin of one who was just hoping that the nobleman would retaliate, for a chance at a scrap. It jarred horribly with the sound of tranquil flute playing coming from somewhere in the woods on the left. In any case, the nobleman did not deliver, and sat frozen and nervous as Bahorel cut his purse strings and glanced at the contents.

“Travelling lightly for nobility,” he remarked, as Courfeyrac’s head emerged from the depths of the travel chest with a bemused expression and added, “There’s really nothing fashionable in here. Nor any money.”

“That’s ‘cos they’ve got a secret compartment down ‘ere!” piped up a third voice.

The nobleman looked down in horror at the small boy who had somehow appeared at their feet, rolled back the tapestry that had been lining the floor, and was now pointing at the trapdoor in the false floor he’d had a carpenter install just last week. He groaned in defeat as Bahorel opened it up and triumphantly held up a small sack of gold coin.

“Small nondescript carriage, secret compartments… I think people are catching on to us, Gavroche,” Courfeyrac commented cheerfully, dropping back to the ground with the boy on his back.

Bahorel passed the coin to a tall man armed with a quarterstaff, but remained on the carriage, grinning down at its occupants. The other man went to Enjolras.

“Combeferre.”

“Enjolras. I do not think we stand to gain more from further harassment here. They were trying to keep a low profile to avoid us, but truth be told I do not think they have the status and resources to hire guards. We should let them on their way.”

Enjolras nodded. “Very well. Come men! We have what we came for.”

Bahorel gave a slightly disappointed sigh and jumped down from the carriage. Another outlaw, who had at some point climbed up to the driver’s seat, pressed a coin into the driver’s hand and shook it, saying, “It is working men like you that hold the country together. Remember what I told you, and if you are ever in need, you know how to call us.” Two others, who had been fussing over the horses, gave the beasts a final pat before moving back.

“I think the horse hair is giving me a cough,” muttered one, sniffing slightly.

“You’re a pinder. Of course it isn’t,” laughed the other.

“Do not try to find us again,” Enjolras called, moving to the side of the road, and motioning for the driver to proceed. “Instead, help the people under your care. For one day soon they shall rise up, and their oppressors shall receive their payment in full.”

The carriage trundled on. The nobleman sat, stunned, one hand clutched in his hair. His wife patted his shoulder gently.

“At least we’re not hurt,” she said. “All things considered, they were rather pleasant about it. Although I think I would rank Courfeyrac in second place myself…”

The baron began to hit his forehead against the wall of the carriage.

—-

When the outlaws made it back to camp, they were greeted by a friar, reclining against a tree with a flagon of ale, which he raised to the returning party.

“Nice to see you finally made it out of bed, Frere Tuk,” Enjolras said, with exasperation rather than approval, his brow furrowed, almost with disdain.

“To see Enjolras return victorious, always,” the monk replied dryly. “And call me R. Everyone else does. This French nomenclature does not seem to stick to me as it does to you. Or, better, call me ‘Grande-aire’, so that you may call in French my lack of Frenchness. ‘Grantaire’. Do you think that sounds better?” He grinned before taking a swig from his tankard.

Enjolras gave a sharp huff and turned away with a scowl. “Everyone, prepare to break camp,” he ordered. “Combeferre, take a few men with you and take the money to Blidsworth. There should be plenty to cover the repairs needed there, and use whatever else you need to ensure each family is fed. The rest of us will meet you in the usual place a mile outside the village. Ah, Gavroche, will you be returning to Nottingham?”

The boy nodded. “I’ll catch up wiv you lot again soon I’m sure!”

“Thank you for your help. Take care of yourself.”

“When do I not?” the boy replied, skipping into the trees.

Enjolras turned back to the friar, this time calm. “I would have you hear my confession,” he said, head bowed and yet with great dignity.

Grantaire clambered to his feet with a mocking laugh. “Is this not a play we have rehearsed a hundred times before, lines we know by rote? Now, let me guess, you led a band of outlaws and robbed a passing noble of their money, correct? Did you kill anyone this time? I think not, but it is so hard to tell with the red livery you wear.”

Enjolras lowered his eyes, his voice like steel. “It is for the sake of the poor that we return to sin, for the sake of the Holy Virgin who shares in their sorrows and prays for the justice we bring for them. Nevertheless, still we sin, and I wish to confess.”

The monk stood, silent for a moment, his expression strange, almost longing. “As you wish,” he said softly, and led Enjolras towards his tent.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was originally written for the 2013 Les Mis Across History event. Technically, I am still working on this fic. This may make this one of the slowest-updating fics in existence, for which I can only apologise.


End file.
